


To the Victor Belong the Spoils

by ancientreader



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dom/sub Play, Established Relationship, M/M, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-10
Updated: 2015-02-10
Packaged: 2018-03-11 11:18:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3325535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ancientreader/pseuds/ancientreader
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You give me tasks,” Sherlock says.<br/>“Mm-hm.”<br/>“With the object of forcing me to lose my composure.”<br/>“Yep.”<br/>“What qualifies as losing my composure?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	To the Victor Belong the Spoils

“You give me tasks,” Sherlock says.

“Mm-hm.”

“With the object of forcing me to lose my composure.”

“Yep.”

“What qualifies as losing my composure?”

“Oh, I dunno. Begging would do it. Coming in your pants, absolutely. I think we’ll both know it when we see it.”

“Or hear it.”

 _Begging,_ of course. “Pedant,” John says, and gives Sherlock’s left nipple a twist.

 

*

Round one takes place in the cab on the way to the restaurant. John puts his hand on Sherlock’s thigh. “Open your flies.” Sherlock shoots the cabbie a look, but he doesn’t seem to be worried about possible shenanigans by a couple of middle-aged men in good suits: his eyes are on the road. “Don’t make me impatient,” John says, pinching up near Sherlock’s crotch. Hard. Sherlock draws in a breath and obeys: zip down, pants opened. “Good. And that’s how you sit till we get to the restaurant.”

The cab’s windows are open to the fresh spring evening; Sherlock can just feel the breeze over his bare delicate skin, shivery. He closes his eyes and makes himself breathe slowly and regularly, keeping back the electric thread that runs from John’s hand, which remains high on his thigh.

John smiles. He takes back his hand and sends Sherlock a text: 

_it really wouldn’t do to have to zip a hard-on back into your trousers, would it_

“Punctuation,” Sherlock scoffs. “Capitalization.” He deletes the text.

They are arriving at the restaurant. John reaches over and zips Sherlock up, not closing his pants first, and taking the opportunity to drag his pinky up from Sherlock’s foreskin and give his pubic hair a quick tug. Sherlock’s prick, not filled but, ah, plumped, just a little, presses against the placket of his trousers. “Out you get,” John says, “and keep your hands well away from your pockets. The only touching you’ll be doing is what I tell you to do.”

The restaurant is one of those old-fashioned places with white tablecloths all the way to the floor. Sherlock suspects that this will be to John’s advantage rather than his own. John takes Sherlock's hand and kisses the knuckles, then opens the small satchel he has brought with him and from it produces a box, which he presses into Sherlock’s palm. “Off to the loo with you now. I’ll see you at our table.”

The weight of the box says metal and Sherlock knows what he’s in for. Thank goodness for posh restaurants with large loo stalls equipped with shelves. He leans against the closed door, sets the box down on the shelf, and tries to catch his breath. Of all toys, it’s the cock cage that he has the strongest love-hate relationship with – hate, because it’s so frustrating not to get properly hard, never mind coming; love, because it’s so frustrating not to get properly hard, never mind coming, and because nothing turns him on more than having John take control over his pleasure. And, dammit, he’s getting hard just looking at the box. 

Sherlock steps out of the stall and runs a tap till the water is as cold as it will go; he takes two hand towels off the neat stack on the counter, lays one over his shoulder, soaks the second in the freezing water, and goes back in the stall. There he takes a moment to send John a text, _You bastard. – SH,_ and then grits his teeth, lowers his trousers and pants as far as his knees, and presses the cold wet towel to his groin. Fuck fuck fuck fuck. He pats his shriveled cock dry carefully and puts the cock cage on as fast as he can, because he really doesn’t want to get hard again and this whole business is turning him on unfairly. 

John texts him a smiley face. 

The tiny lock that accompanies the cock cage is absent; here’s one of those lines of demarcation Sherlock both admires and chafes against. Semipublic sex with the possibility – make that the reality – of humiliation: no problem. But John refuses flatly to put Sherlock in any confinement he can’t get out of instantly, unless they’re at home. Not even giving Sherlock the key would do, in his opinion. Sherlock knows: they’ve argued it. Anyhow Sherlock has come to see the merits of John’s position from another point of view. It’s harder to keep his legs apart and his hands still when they’re untied; harder to endure the cock cage when he knows he could remove it without permission at any time. He sends John a photo of his prick, pink and soft, wrapped in its six steel rings. The seventh, larger ring, the one around his scrotum, gleams between his thighs.

On a whim, he removes his trousers and pants, then puts the trousers on again, commando, and checks himself in the mirror. (Apparently a force field is keeping all other men out of the loo for now.) Yes: when he walks, the fine black wool of his trousers will pull just taut enough to allow someone who knows what he’s looking for to see the outline of the rings. Sherlock smiles and bins his pants.

John is sat at a corner table, across the dining room. Sherlock sashays toward him. He can see the exact moment at which John registers the wardrobe deletion – his cheeks color and, _yes!_ there’s the telltale flick of tongue over lower lip.

“One thing about the cage,” Sherlock says, sliding onto the banquette next to John (carefully, so as not to jostle the steel around his balls), “it cuts down sharply on the odds of my ejaculating in my pants.”

“As does not actually wearing pants,” John agrees, and gives Sherlock’s crotch a rub. “On the other hand, it sharply increases the odds of your begging. So I’d say it’s a worthwhile tradeoff.”

The waiter appears. John orders a bottle of white wine – this is informative, as it means he doesn’t plan any impact play tonight – and starters: roasted aubergine, a platter of charcuterie. When the waiter has gone, he unzips Sherlock’s trousers again and neatly lays apart the placket. Sherlock can picture the frame of fabric around his hemmed-in genitals, and he knows very well that John knows this. Meanwhile, John is idly (well, not so idly) running his forefinger between the rings of the cock cage. Sherlock has folded his hands together in front of him on the table to prevent himself from grabbing John’s hand and either shoving it away or pressing it into himself, he’s not sure which. He breathes through his nose. John goes on to cup Sherlock’s balls and squeeze gently, also to tug, in no predictable rhythm. This has become unbearable and sweat has collected in Sherlock’s armpits by the time the waiter arrives with their wine for John to taste. John takes his hand away and Sherlock nearly whimpers with relief and disappointment. 

John tastes the wine appreciatively. “Thank you, it’s fine,” he tells the waiter, so pleasant, so unassuming, so courteous. Sherlock toys with saying something less tedious, such as, for example, “My boyfriend here has my cock and balls in a steel cage and he’s been playing with my testicles in a fashion calculated to drive me mad,” just to blow John’s mild-mannered cover. The idea makes him snort and earns him John’s hand darting back under the table to pinch his balls: John’s deductive skills have certainly improved in recent years, or maybe it’s just that he knows Sherlock that well.

Here is another one of John’s rules: Sherlock must eat good food when not on a case. Therefore John takes his hand away when their starters arrive, so as not to distract Sherlock, and indeed the aubergine and charcuterie are so delicious that Sherlock forgets for a few minutes that he is also having sex. So he’s almost surprised when, having ordered for them the lamb cutlet and the lemon sole, John zips him up again and produces another box from his satchel. “Off you go, gorgeous,” he says cheerfully.

“Everyone in the place will imagine I have prostate trouble,” Sherlock complains, which elicits an outright guffaw, and of course the only question is which plug this is. 

John has been not entirely kind, and entirely practical: the box contains the one plug of theirs that (a) rests on Sherlock’s prostate when properly positioned, while also (b) having a flat base so that it can be worn while sitting upright. (Which as well as being practical is again not entirely kind, because if Sherlock can wear the plug while sitting upright, then John intends him to do precisely that, which means that Sherlock will be squirming all through their mains and, presumably, dessert. John, devotee of careful preparation that he is, has provided two single-use packets of lube (and he must be laughing himself silly over Sherlock’s lack of forethought in discarding his pants).

Fortunately, the pile of soft fluffy towels has been replenished since Sherlock was here twenty-five minutes previously. He wets one (warm water this time, thank you very much), throws a dry one over his shoulder, and takes himself into one of those well-furnished stalls. He shucks his trousers and hangs them on the hook, then rips open a lube packet and braces himself on the shelf. It’s not so easy to work the lube into his arse in this position; at home, when John wants Sherlock to prep himself, he has Sherlock kneel on the bed with his shoulders down and his legs far apart, which makes it easier to spread his arse open one-handed and lube himself with the other, but in this position the angle is wrong and _oh dammit_ he has gotten lube all over the inner surfaces of his cheeks, if he doesn’t manage to wipe off all the excess once he’s got the plug in it will dry on the hairs there and pull when he moves _bloody hell_. 

On the second try, success. Sherlock wipes his hands and his arse on the wet but no-longer-warm towel, then dries himself, then takes the selfie he knows will get John as hot and bothered as possible: Sherlock’s legs spread as far apart as he can get them in the stall, the camera positioned between them so that his plugged arse and caged genitals are all in the frame. Then, just to be evil, he adds thirty seconds of video: his face, while he rocks the plug back and forth inside himself. Thanks to the repeated pressure on his prostate and the futile efforts of his cock to harden in response, he doesn’t have to dramatize one bit: every gasp and every bite of his bottom lip is genuine. By the time he emerges from the loo, he thinks he might just be willing to let John fuck him right there at the table.

Possibly John is thinking along similar lines, because he is flushed from ear tips to collar (actually, Sherlock knows from experience, all the way down to his nipples) and chewing his lips. Sherlock’s feeling of triumph is short-lived, however, because between himself and the opportunity to tease John in person is the walk to their table, that is to say approximately one hundred meters of exquisite agony, every step a replay of that rock, rock, rock, shivery-sparky-desperate, his poor prick twitching in its cell. Sherlock is just short of hand-flapping helplessly by the time he has got halfway. But by then, John is in motion:

\- Out of his seat, dropping some large number of notes on their table, saying something urgent to the waiter, and – this is the most important part – he is headed Sherlock’s way, with a look on his face that is purest Captain Watson. “I am hauling you,” he says between his teeth, “into the nearest fucking alleyway, Sherlock, and there I am going to rip those trousers right down those legs of yours and I am going to have you, do you hear me?”

“ _Finally_ ,” Sherlock replies. “Off Warwick Street, it’s not five doors away, turn right going out the door,” but John is already, as promised, hauling him out of the restaurant and down the street and yes, it is blessedly dark in the alley and, bonus, there is a deep doorway a bit along to shelter in, just in case someone should happen to look into the alley while passing by, and John pushes Sherlock up against the brickwork and shoves his trousers off and Sherlock is standing there looking ridiculous in just his shirt and jacket and bespoke shoes but these are trivial matters, because John eases the plug out and produces another single-use packet that he squeezes out messily over his prick and then he slides. right. home with Sherlock’s legs around his waist. “John, John,” Sherlock sobs, “the cage, oh God, please John,” and when John takes it off Sherlock gets hard so fast he almost yodels. 

Time between trouser removal and orgasm: 45 seconds, Sherlock Holmes, owing to the interval before the cock cage was removed; 19 seconds, John Watson. Or perhaps we should count the time elapsed from the moment they entered that taxicab, over an hour earlier. In any event, it takes them less time to get off in the alley than it does to clean themselves up sufficiently to go back to the restaurant and retrieve their mains – boxed for them at John’s request, because, as he says with perfect justice, it’s wrong to waste good food.

**Author's Note:**

> For [Vulgarweed](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Vulgarweed/pseuds/Vulgarweed)'s prompt: "Surrender."
> 
> [Here’s the butt plug](http://www.adameve.com/adult-sex-toys/anal-sex-toys/prostate-toys/sp-silicone-curved-prostate-probe-92791.aspx) John has Sherlock use.
> 
> The restaurant our frisky lads have so much fun at is very remotely inspired, with respect to menu and location, by the wonderful Nopi, but Nopi hasn’t got floor-length tablecloths (or for that matter any tablecloths at all), and would be a poor choice of venue for the sort of thing our heroes get up to. Also, although Google Maps does show an alleyway nearby, I can’t vouch for said alleyway’s darkness or the availability of extra-deep doorways.
> 
> Some may object to John and Sherlock’s drinking alcohol while playing a scene. There are good reasons, for instance, why the wine tips Sherlock off that impact play is not on the evening’s agenda. (Aim! Calibration of force!) I fall into the camp that thinks if the partners know each other well and drug abuse isn’t an issue, some rules can be relaxed. YMMV.


End file.
